


Motherly

by LaurelSilver



Series: Winter Wonderland [5]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Storms, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 18:03:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5636590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurelSilver/pseuds/LaurelSilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[From the Winter angst with a happy ending prompts] The character decides to visit someone despite the snow and cold, and the journey is dangerous, but it’s worth it in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Motherly

**Author's Note:**

> Dylan 'Wales' Kirkland  
> Arthur 'England' Kirkland  
> Laura 'Isles of Scilly' Kirkland  
> Cymru [Dylan's dragon]  
> Zanzibar [Laura's sea turtle]  
> Alistair 'Scotland' Kirkland

Dylan stands nervously on the end of the dock, wrapped up tight in two jackets and god-knows-how many jumpers. Arthur watches him from the lighthouse, radio buzzing with white noise. Most Welsh sailors are inland, celebrating a short winter holiday with their families. Very few humans are confident enough sailors to brave these seas, waves higher than cruisers, winds cold and biting, sky so cloudy the ocean would by a swirling ink death trap if not for the lighthouse.

But Laura Kirkland is _not_ human, and most definitely _is_ confident enough in her sailing skills to brave a watery hell like this. Arthur would call her more insane than confident, but that only leads to his wonderful siblings picking on him for being unable to swim _those bastards_.

The kettle squeals next to him, the lighthouse still using a dented tin thing on a portable gas stove, and Arthur almost throws it across the room in shock. He worries incessantly about his little sister whenever he hears about her escapades. If she were more like the other blond Kirklands, nostalgic and semi-stationary _just stay on your fucking islands Laura_ , he'd be much less stressed, but no. She's a wild, untamable spirit of a girl, filled with an adventurous fire no ocean could quench, never mind the Bristol Channel.

Arthur pours the hot water over the Bouillon powder in the bottom of the flask, the vegetable stock forming a thin soup. Arthur hates the stuff, which has nothing to do with its French origins _shut the fuck up_ , but a lot of his siblings like it.

Dylan is practically clinging to the buoy pole at the end of the dock, wave after wave crashing down over and around him, Cymru curled defensively under his coat. Arthur pulls his wellies on, tucking his waterproof dungarees into the rubber boots. He hates the plastic-and-rubber 'fashion' he has to wear when 'playing mortal' by the coast, but has learnt the hard way that a stormy dock is not the place for a suit or jeans. And if he's honest, he's worn sillier fashions in the past. Powdered wigs; what the _fuck_ was he thinking?!

Coat zipped and sealed, hat pulled firmly down over his ears, flask safely tucked under his arm, and Arthur is ready to face the weather. Well, as ready as he's going to get.

The door flies out of his hand as he opens it, slamming open. Arthur wrestles the door closed, flask already slippery and difficult to hold. Rain beats down over the dock and Arthur's hat as he half-runs over the wooden boards to Dylan. Dylan's almost completely covered by waterproof rubber-fabric, an old knitted scarf tied over his face with Cymru's nose poking out the wooly folds for air, gloves thick and clumsy.

Arthur holds the flask out to him, almost dropping it. Dylan's head turns to him. Arthur can't see his look, completely shielded by worn-out wool and clouded glasses, but he can feel it. It's the same glare of _what the actual fuck are you trying to achieve you goddamned imbecile_ that he sends Alistair almost daily.

Arthur tucks the flask back under his arm, cupping his hands around his mouth. "You need to come back inside!" he yells over the wind. Dylan shakes his head aggressively. "You're never going to see her in this weather! Come back inside before you freeze!"

Dylan shakes his head again. Arthur grabs his arm, macintosh slipping uselessly through Arthur's fingers. The flask falls, too cold and wet to be caught, the thud of hitting the wooden deck unhearable over the storm. Arthur chases after it as it begins to roll away, scooping it up carefully, wrapping his arms around it like he's carrying a metallic baby. He heads back to Dylan.

"You'll catch you a death of cold!" he yells, Yorkshire vowels slipping into his speech. Alistair's always been better at talking sense into people than Arthur. Dylan ignores him, still clinging to the pole.

Arthur sighs. Even though Laura is geographically closer to him, not Dylan, and even though they have so little in common, Dylan and Laura are inseparable when they're on land. They're clearly siblings, with unruly blond hair and huge blue eyes, Laura being heavier freckled and Dylan wearing chunky glasses for his long sightedness. Laura visiting is one of the few times Dylan is rambunctious, running around the Kent mansion with Laura on his back, Cymru on their heels, singing shanties at the tops of their voices.

"Fine. Come back in when you're cold, I'll keep the kettle warm." Arthur shouts, storming off before Dylan can give any sign he heard.

Arthur has to put his entire body weight against the door to close it, falling ungracefully on his arse, the flask going spinning into the corner. He sits up, flicks the middle finger to the door. The door does not respond because it's a door.

Standing up, Arthur peels the coat off, water dripping to the floor around him. Fat drops of rainwater roll off his hat down his neck and he convulses, throwing the hat off. It slaps against the door, Arthur's hair stood on its ends. He shoots the hat the middle finger too. Much like the door, the hat does not respond. Arthur picks it up begrudgingly, hanging it on the hook with the coat. He tries to kick his boots off, the rubber squealing wetly as it rubs together, and he pulls them off instead, hopping on one foot to tear off the other welly. He crashes into the wall, knocking down a photograph of the ex-colonies in a snuggle-pile with their pets.

"For fucks' sake," Arthur grumbles, sat legs splayed on the wet floor. He hisses as water seeps through the heel of his thick, wooly socks.

Arthur rolls lazily over to the shoe rack, and pulls on a pair of slippers slightly too large on him but warm and fluffy. Probably Alistair's. He rolls over to the flask, too unmotivated to stand up, and rolls to the bottom of the stairs before he stands, begrudgingly dragging himself up the metal steps.

Kettle still warm, he pours himself a cup of tea and sits by the window. He can't actually see anything, rain beating against the glass until the world is just grey with a rhythmic flash of yellow. Up here, he couldn't see Laura if she somehow pressed her face right up against the window. Which is a silly prank she enjoys doing. Especially when he's trying to lead a meeting _little brat_.

Over half an hour passes before the door below slams open, making Arthur jump and spill tea on his jumper. "Dylan?"

"No, it's the wind," his brother retorts, and laughs. Cymru comes flapping up the stairs, cuddling straight up to the heater.

"Did you see Laura?" Arthur asks, half-running down the stairs.

"Well, I can't right now."

"What's that supposed to mean?!"

Laura giggles, her hands pressed over Dylan's eyes, his glasses in his hands. "It means I can't see anything at all; help me, Artie, I'm blind!"

Arthur rolls his eyes. "You're not blind and you know it, you idiot," he scolds, snatching the glasses off Dylan before he drops them. It wouldn't be the first time, "Quit fannying around, and get your wet clothes off."

"Yes, Mum!" Laura groans, pulling her rain poncho off.

"I'm not your bloody mother."

"Quit behaving like my mother then!" Laura unravels her bun, letting her hair hang in her more typical ponytail as she pulls her moulded wellies off.

"Quit behaving like a reckless child then!" Arthur snaps, "Honestly, what were you thinking, sailing out in this weather?"

"I was thinking "I want to visit my family like we'd planned"."

"We wouldn't have been disappointed if you didn't risk your _fucking life_ to sail out in the middle of a storm!"

"I can't risk my life. I'm immortal. Pretty much." Laura says plainly. "Don't get your knickers in a bunch, Mum."

"I'm not your _bloody fucking mother_!"

"Calm down!" Dylan says, patting both Arthur and Laura on the head. "We need to warm up, Arthur, didn't you make soup?"

"Only that Boullion bullshit you're so fond of," Arthur grumbles.

"That's so not a motherly thing to do," Laura comments.

"If you don't shut your whore mouth, I shan't make you any hot chocolate!"

Laura pouts.

"That's better. Now get your slippers on and get upstairs, I'll stick the kettle on. There's some rolled blankets warming behind the heater, and a tank with a battery filter under the window. Chop chop!"

Arthur heads back upstairs, pretending he didn't her Laura call "Thanks, Mum," after him.

**Author's Note:**

> Arthur can't swim; this is canon. It's because only 1 in 5 British adults learnt how to swim  
> Bristol Channel; channel south of Wales  
> Bouillon; vegetable stocks used in soups. French in origin
> 
> Yes, I got Laura and Zanzibar's names from The Wreck of the Zanzibar.


End file.
